Happy Birthday, Madeline

(this article was prepared by Middle Aged Woman from Unmitigated in memory of Madeline Alice Spohr...)

I don't think there are too many people reading this who didn't have their heart broken on April 7th of this year. That's the day we learned that Madeline Alice Spohr, whom we all knew as Maddie from The Spohrs Are Multiplying, was suddenly taken fromher parents, Heather and Mike, when a respiratory infection coupled with a collapsed lung was more than her 17-month-old body could fight.

Thousands of people across the country mourned with Heather and Mike, and thousands came to their support by donating to the March of Dimes in Maddie's memory. Since then, the Spohrs, along with family and friends, have created Friends of Maddie, a fund dedicated to supporting families of critically ill or prematurely-born infants during their stay in the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) with supplies, help finding temporary lodging (because the NICU isn't always within commuting distance of home), and by creating a network of support.

Friends of Maddie uses your donation to put together SupportPacks for families who find themselves overwhelmed with the care of an at-risknewborn. The packs include items such as reusable water bottles, snack bars,tissues, mints, and most importantly, a tri-fold binder with a note pad and accordion file to keep track of paperwork."We're hopeful it will make it at a little easier for parents to keep track of everything," Heather says. "You get SO many papers, business cards, etc., every day, and it's hard to keep track of everything."

She should know, she lived the experience. Maddie's sixty-eight-day stay in the NICU is chronicled on Heather's blog and her husband Mike's blog as well. Readers across the country followed every setback and every victory.

What message would she like to pass on to parents in the same situation? "Patience. Take things a day at a time and live in the moment. Don't look down the road or things will get REALLY scary and overwhelming," shared Heather.

The reaction to the packs has been terrific, according to Heather, "We've been getting a FANTASTIC response from everyone! We weren't expecting such a big response so we are really behind in getting back to everyone, but it's a good problem to have!"

By now, you are all wondering how you can help, right? I knew it. You people rock. Your options:

* Donate! I know, the economy is bad right now, but every little bit helps. Or...
* Let your local NICU know about Friends of Maddie, or...
* Do you work for a company that might bring a valuable service to NICU parents? Contact FoM! Or...
* Just spread the word! Write a blog post! Send out a tweet! Y'all know how this works!

Mike and Heather's loss is unimaginable. In spite of their grief, they have found a way to pay forward all the love poured out from thousands of hearts across the internet.

Tell your friends about Friends of Maddie.

And Now I'm Drooling

The last time I saw Dr. Crazy Socks, all we talked about was sex. It was awkward. It's a shame that he wasn't wearing penis socks. And now I know what to get him for Christmas.

I'm trying to decide if I want to try Chantix to quit smoking this time. Of the people who have used it, half said it worked and the other half said it made them so nuts that they had to quit taking the meds. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't notice if I got more nuts. Nutsier. Nastier. Wait, are we talking about sex again?

I have a love affair with Subway. I'm like Pavlov's dog for their BLT. I have to plan my drive so I avoid passing the store because if I even think about extra jalapenos and a little bit of mayo...I totally fugue out and the next thing I remember is waking up on the floor of my car with lettuce crumbs and salt and vinegar chips in my shirt. It's not safe, but damn it's good.

I am so excited for the fall semester to end because that means I'll get to read a book FOR PLEASURE. Saying those words aloud is the equivalent of parents saying they get to sleep in late when they're not even hung over AND their kids aren't eating batteries in the other room.

Five Head called on Saturday and spent 30 minutes explaining the intricate differences between series one, two and three of Bakugon. I'm still in a coma from that conversation. Ten-year-old boys are boring.

I got an email from my ex informing me that he went out to dinner with his parents on Friday and who should turn out to be his waitress? MY SISTER. Wow, I bet she was excited about that shit. They caught up and everything was hunky dory, apparently, but I cannot wait to dish with my sis about that little incident.

Also, the ex informed me that he has "found God" which is SO AWESOME because I didn't even realize that god was missing, and since I'm so in the god loop, it probably means most people didn't realize god was missing, and the Pope may have known something was up but he was too busy rolling in piles of gold coins with the naked alter boy to make an announcement to all the Catholics that they should start looking for god, and thus my ex averted a world-wide panic.

Nice work, ex-husband. Nice work. Just wish you would have been able to find your own damn socks when we were married.

Midget? No. Quitter? Oh Yeah.

I know I'm totally ruining the "illusion" for many of you, but it's time I put myself out there. I'm a person just like you, at least until the lights go out, and we're all in this together.

I don't really know what that means, so here - watch this:

The Trouble With Quitting...

Did I mention that I quit smoking again?

Any by "again", I mean, "AGAIN???" and now the sight of the word "again" has lost all meaning to my brain. Wait, maybe I should specify exactly what I quit smoking here.

I quit smoking cigarettes again-again. Again. Nope, still means nothing.

Anyhow, I finally did it: I got hungover enough that the thought of smoking a cigarette made me gag for two days. (If you need to quit, too, here's the trick: smoke 4 times more than normal in 1/4 of the time and overindulge in adult beverages and lay on the couch moaning for two days )((works like a motherfucking charm, let me tell you)).

When you quit smoking, the first 2 or 3 days of abstinence are the hardest and it feels like someone has ripped a gaping hole in the back of your mind and all you can think about is stuffing that hole full of carcinogens and tobacco and sweet, smokey tendrils of vapor love. But if you're already so hungover that the though of thinking about thoughts means possibly dying and YOU ARE TOO YOUNG TO DIE,...well, then smoking isn't so high up on the list of priorities, you know?

Nevertheless, your lungs feel lonely and too-pink and there are all these random moments during the day when you're not sure what exactly you should be doing with yourself. Like, "Well, just finished up dinner and now I'll just...um...what DO non-smokers do after a meal? The circle is incomplete!"

Not smoking during those designated Cigarette Times feels remarkably similar to when you purposefully walk into the kitchen but then can't remember why you walked into the kitchen, so you just wander around aimlessly from drawer to drawer hoping it will come back to you, and eventually it does, but not until you're in the middle of taking a dump.

Everyone around you is smoking, and they all look pretty damn pleased with themselves. That guy with the cigarette in the car next to you at the stoplight? HE IS TORTURING YOU AND HE KNOWS IT. That movie you've seen 4,000 times but never really noticed before how much the actress smokes until now? THAT BITCH IS TRYING TO DESTROY YOUR LIFE. All those people at all those holiday parties who brave the icy winds and stand outside in a huddle? THEY ARE HAVING MORE FUN THAN YOU.

Tuesday night at 7:40 p.m. when we took a ten minute break from my British Lit class, the flashing neon light behind my eyes kicked on and all I could see was "CIGARETTE TIME! CIGARETTE TIME! Hurry up, it's CIGARETTE TIME!" and all my class friends filed out the door and I stood staring after them, a thin stream of drool connecting my chin to my shoes, until someone asked if I was coming and I muttered, "No, I'm trying to quit."

That, of course, elicited a chorus of "good for yous" from the smokers, but I know from experience that when they say "good for you", they really mean "better you than me, sucker."

And I spent the rest of the break walking in a circle from the water fountain to the door, not sure if I should be seated and pretend to study or if I should try to pee again or if I should get a snack or if I should just FUCKING CAVE AND BEG FOR A CIGARETTE.

Hell, when you're really desperate, a used butt from the ashtray will work just fine.

So I guess this post is my convoluted way of saying, "HOLD ME!" and "THOSE CHUNKS I COUGHED UP WERE ISHY!" and "::incoherent sobs and snortles which indicate my desperate need to suck on something deadly::!"

(Oddly enough, this is the first time I've quit while medicated and I guess I'm not exactly the most impartial judge ever, but I don't think I've been cranky or crabby or moody or violent this time.)((Can't recommend medication enough, ya'll.))

My Apologies For the Retinal Scarring

Meet: Jane Fonda and her NASCAR-lovin' boy toy, Jed.

Blurry? Check! Inappropriate posture? Check! Way too much lemon vodka? CHECK! Nothing says Happy Halloween like Sing Star, venison and ass-smack circles.

Also, my bra is stuffed with socks and the bottom of my leotard is a bathing suit that I butchered for the occasion. And my hair is one gallon of Aqua Net. Still isn't moving.

I woke up today. VOLUNTARILY. This is something I wasn't sure would ever happen again, not after Saturday night. As much as I love kids, it was probably best I don't have any right now. I would have neglected the shit out of them on Sunday. I didn't even clean my ears with a Q-tip, that's how bad it was.

But this morning, I'm off to assist with the local chapter of Kids Vote! (the exclamation point is literally right there in the name) and I have to be at the Methodist church to set up by 6:45. I know that sounds early, but I'm normally at work by 7:00, so it's no stretch for me. I usually roll out of bed between 5:00 and 5:45 - RELUCTANTLY - to get ready for work.

Today, I woke up at 4:30. A.M.! I realize I can thank the disappearance of Daylight Savings Time (also, remind me to thank you for the darkness to and from work every morning and night for the next six months, motherfucker) but I feel like a warrior princess or something. I literally do not get out of bed voluntarily, EVER.

I either need to buy a lotto ticket or double check my medication.

It's Confirmed: I'm Awesome

I really shouldn't tell you people this. I know it's a bad idea. It's WAY more than you can handle.

But this is the only way to get the praise and congratulations I deserve, so click here for my FIRST! EVER! GUEST POST!!

Now, listen. We gotta lay down some ground rules here. The host blog belongs to an intellectual - my PROFESSOR, no less - and it is a blog for English majors at my university.

I tell you this because the type of nonsense that goes on here at Zipbag of Bones will not be appreciated at this smarter, fancier blog:

• Use of the word "fuck" (or any derivation therewith) shall not be tolerated!
• No references to genitalia will be allowed, and yes - this includes sexual innuendos and questions about why it burns when you pee.
• Please refrain from making fun of dwarfs, retards, unicorns or Twilight fans. (As per usual, jokes about Obama and Jesus are fair game.)
• Only intelligent comments will be tolerated. The rest of you will be hunted down and Sawzalled into tiny little pieces of goo. BRUTALLY.

Not only does my grade depend on you idiots not fucking this up, but also my reputation as a high-minded scholar, devoted solely to the mastery of knowledge and the contemplation of metaphysics as it concern the indigenous people of Peru in the 13th century.

DON'T RUIN IT FOR ME.

You know what, it's probably better that none of you even go to my guest post. Forget I ever said anything.

Here, have some candy.

In Which My Crazy Shows A Little

I just got an email from the Uza Nunua.com, which apparently is the premium online auction and classified website in KENYA. It's like Ebay, but with more flowing fabrics, apparently, where I can, "can buy and sell any item in Kenya," and they tell me, "It is the most cost effective way of advertising local goods and services." Fantastic, now I can get rid of all those sheep bladders I've got lying around. I'm wondering exactly where Team Uza Nunua got my email and exactly what they thought I'd be selling or buying in Kenya, Africa. Perhaps they need more vibrators over there? I hear the AIDS is a problem, so that theory kind of makes sense - the more the Kenyans "love the one they're with", so to speak, the fewer times I'll have to watch Philadelphia to remind myself I'm required to care about the Aids.

Wow. That was incredibly inappropriate.

Onto another topic of equal or lesser appropriate levels.

We just read the first four books of Milton's Paradise Lost about the angels' fall from heaven to Hell (which, according to Milton, is exactly like ancient Greece but with less nudity), and I found one aspect of this story particularly interesting.

And by interesting, I mean it made me want to shove the highlighter through my nasal cavity and into my brain just a little less than all the other parts.

So Lucifer is up in heaven when he has the VERY FIRST thought against God, which results in him birthing a smokin' hot babe out of his forehead (I shit you not), who turns out to be his daughter, Sin. Sin is so fucking hot that Lucifer does the unthinkable (unless you're south of the Mason Dixon) and he screws her, like, all the time.

Unfortunately for Sin, Lucifer gets a little busy with the whole trying to overthrow god thing, and basically ditches her there in heaven after he is cast into hell. Meanwhile, Sin is appointed to the task of watching the gates of hell and making sure they're locked and shit. You know, to keep all the demons down there where they belong.

Because apparently SIN is the responsible one.

It's around this time that Sin realized she's carrying good ole dad's incest spawn, and when she delivers the monster child (which nearly kills her, by the way), he's so enormous and misshapen than her entire body from the waist down basically explodes and she's left with streamers of entrails and whatnot.

Well, like a good chip off the ole' block, this new baby monster who happens to be named Death (convenient, huh?) runs after mommy and her entrails and he rapes her. Logistically, Im not sure where he decided to...stick everything, but he manages to figure it out, and now Sin is pregnant with Death's monster babies.

THESE babies turn out to be little yappy things like Yorkies or little Soleil Moon Fryes, and their eternal job is to spend an hour nipping at Sin's wasted feet and making all sorts of racket, and then after the hour is up they all run up her intestines and spend an hour chewing on her internal organs. Then they run back out and do it all over again.

I don't really remember the rest of the story because right about this time I had to stop and projectile vomit into the fern, but it's probably safe to say that somehow, some way, those puppies end up raping Jesus. That's the next logical step.

Oh, and also? Happy Halloween Eve-Eve.

Wow, that was both inappropriate AND a terrible ending to this post. Let's see if I can tie this all up neatly with a bow:

So then Sin goes to Dunn Brothers and uses their free Wi-Fi (while the cashiers debate frantically over whether her trailing intestines is a violation of their "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service" policy), and she logs onto Uza Nunua.com, where she searches the vast (and apparently convenient) selection of online Kenyan auctions and classified ads until she scores a sweet deal on a case of small dog muzzles, then she heads to the Kenya to pick up her merchandise and end her eternity of suffering via stupid little dogs.

Unfortunately the pilots on her flight overshoot the Kenyan airport and end up in Switzerland where Sin is then raped by Roman Polanski, the offspring of which turns out to be her 20th child, and she therefore usurps the Duggars and is offered a reality show on TLC, but filming stops immediately upon the revelation that Sin is now afflicted with the AIDS, which oddly enough she contracted from a contaminated needle while donating blood.

Eat THAT tragedIE, Shakespeare! BOO YAH!!